Stuck
by Aris24
Summary: For a Prompt: After his return, Sherlock has gotten fat. His large girth gets stuck in a booth at Angelo's, and he needs help to get out. Sherlock ends up eating cake after the ordeal. Weight gain, belly stuffing, and belly kinks within! :)


_**Prompt: Sherlock has gotten fat. His large girth gets stuck in a booth at Angelo's, and he needs help to get out. Sherlock ends up eating cake after the ordeal.**_

Many changes had come over Sherlock since his return. He brought more than a few haunting memories and brushes with death back to London, whole rooms of his mind palace that he no longer dared enter because of the nightmares that had seeped in. The mental deadbolts and padlocks held for the most part thankfully. Months on the run had induced a change in his physique, turning scrawny slenderness into starved muscle to keep him alive. That was one of the first things that struck him as he came home to London once again: his hunger.

Never having had much of an appetite before, it came as rather a surprise to the consulting detective. Suddenly his transport was fed up with the abuse it had been put through and was demanding a different sort of feeding up. Sherlock, for once, was inclined to agree and so he eagerly ate and gorged himself at every meal. He thought of all those times that he had nearly starved to death and took second portions without a second thought. The food settled warm and solid in his stomach, pressing against it's walls, straining it sometimes, but the rush of endorphins was all the approval Sherlock needed. It settled and calmed him. He seemed less likely to have bad dreams when he had eaten well, and the full meal in his stomach proved to be an excellent anchor to rationalize that all was well, he was safe, and whole at home.

The people around him seemed to be of a similar mind as he often found himself presented with food more often. Perhaps he was looking thinner than he thought, or they were worried that he would waste away again. Sherlock found himself appreciating the sentiment, and the treats certainly, and so he accepted and ate every bite. Sometimes coffee and doughnuts with Lestrade at the Yard, other times lavish dinners cooked up by John and Mary, take-aways sent by Mycroft, hearty breakfasts or pastries from Mrs. Hudson, or even lunches of sandwiches and chips whenever he was at Bart's from Molly.

His more intimate friends weren't all who insisted on treating him either. It seemed that every restaurant or chippy owner in London that he had ever done a favor for was clamoring to welcome him back with a free meal. Therefore, even the nights when Sherlock preferred to be on his own, there was plentiful food to be eaten. He did it quite happily, lounging on the sofa in nothing but his pants, languidly eating bite after bite, humming indulgently as his belly filled and swelled. He felt peaceful, content, surrounded by the comfort of a warm dry flat and good food. He wondered how he had never appreciated the more domestic side of life before.

Sherlock expected his appetite to slacken and return to normal, but somehow it never really did. He took up cooking, and eating that as well. By the time John was to be married, he'd outgrown every single item of clothing he'd owned and was in danger of bursting out of his tails by the end of the day. No one said anything, in fact most people seemed pleased. Especially John, who only clapped him on the shoulder and tried to offer him yet another slice of cake. Sherlock had laughed and protested, then accepted. Someone had to eat it after all. And it was excellent even on the fifth slice.

The consulting detective's trips to his tailor became increasingly frequent. He had a few of his homeless network run errands, fetching whichever ingredients he needed for the night's feast. He took to consulting with Lestrade over webcam or at crime scenes, giving the answers lazily without the usual running about. Then there would usually be a pastry or two and a coffee.

Sherlock had grown really quite fat over the past few months, though he seemed oddly oblivious or perhaps just indifferent about it. Honestly, he hadn't quite realised just how much weight he'd gained. That is, until one evening when he decided to pay Angelo a visit and eat himself into pasta oblivion.

Angelo was pleased to see him, ushering the consulting detective to a table. But Sherlock, out of habit, insisted on his usual booth. In retrospect, perhaps he ought to have considered that it was already quite a task to wriggle himself in beside the table, his great soft belly jiggling in his lap as he slid onto the bench. He chatted good-naturedly with Angelo, then placed his order. Garlic bread went down the hatch with hardly a thought. It was followed by a plate of tomato and basil bruschetta accompanied by a fine white wine. Then there was a creamy plate of chicken fettuccine alfredo that left Sherlock sighing with contentment as he rubbed at his belly. He shifted, again ignoring the increasingly sparse space between his gut and the table. Because then there was a large serving of beautiful roasted and stuffed peppers to devour. He burped lightly, swigging down more wine as his belly nudged the table. Then Angelo strolled by, smiling broadly and asked if Sherlock had saved room for dessert. The detective smirked. Of course he had. There was always room for dessert, despite what his gurgling stomach would have him believe.

He rubbed it idly, leaning back in the booth to try to get a bit more room for his full stomach where it sat heavily on his thighs, causing his shirt buttons to gape lightly. Then he ordered a generous slice of coffee-raspberry Zabaglione Semifredo.

Every bite was bliss. The sorbet was perfectly tart, complimenting its surrounding whipped espresso and the sweet amaretto crust. Sherlock groaned and hummed his way through it, forcing down every last bit of it even as his stomach smarted and complained as it swelled up against the edge of the table. Then fork clinked against plate and Sherlock sighed and relaxed, his hands perching on his round fat belly. He sat there, eyes closed, utterly at peace, for a few moments, chasing the last of the flavors from his lips with his tongue. He grunted and tried to shift a bit, get away from that damn table putting pressure on his middle, but there didn't seem to be a way around that. He made to sit up and slide out of the booth.

But he couldn't. He frowned and tried to heave himself up again, but his belly twinged at him where it was pressed against the booth's table. He tried to suck it in, but couldn't manage it, tried to push himself further back into the booth's cushions, but his belly's reach was greater than his arms. He huffed and wriggled again, then collapsed back, round belly heaving. No, he was most definitely stuck. He felt heat rise to his cheeks, coloring them as he looked down at the enormous gut he'd grown. It burbled at him. He prodded it in annoyance. It felt like a bloody balloon. A big jiggly _fat_ balloon.

Angelo stopped by to see how his guest was getting on, then smiled and chuckled slightly.

"You see now why I thought a table might-"

"Yes, yes. You're very clever," Sherlock replied tartly. He tried to work himself free again, his face even redder as he huffed and puffed. "I don't suppose you could make yourself _useful_?"

"But of course," Angelo replied, then waved to the serving boy at the back, "Ay! Billy! Give us a hand, here."

"That's hardly necessary," grumbled Sherlock, who might have flushed even more deeply if he'd been able to. He sheepishly reached out his arms so that each man could grab a hold of him.

"Right then, on my count," said Angelo, "One... Two..."

In the end it took both Angelo and Billy and three good hard tugs to dislodge Sherlock from the booth. When he finally came free, two of his buttons were torn off by the table and his great doughy belly was pooching out of the gap. The detective felt positively mortified, even if Billy and Angelo had been kind. They hadn't said a word, _hell_, no one had said a word as he blew up into a wobbly walrus! He elected to walk, but his anger made him out of breath so he caught a cab on the next corner.

He stewed the entire drive home, wondering who to call and torment first, who to seek revenge on, who to demand answers from...

He decided Mrs. Hudson could be his first victim if she were home. She wasn't. She'd gone to see her sister according to the note stuck to what appeared to be a freshly baked and iced orange pound cake. Sherlock glared at the confection, but took it with him upstairs moodily. He set it down on the coffee table as he sank onto the sofa which creaked in complaint. He stared at it. Then he had a thought.

Perhaps the reason no one had said anything... was because they didn't mind. Or they were making fun of him, but... no, it had seemed sincere. There were none of the usual indicators of lying when they had praised him and pushed more food onto him. They'd seemed _happy_ to see him eat, encouraged his appetite.

Sherlock blinked, then carefully reached out, grunting slightly, to pull the plastic wrap from the cake.

Well, he reasoned, if no one else cared, why should he? He was typically the last in line when it came to caring. Sherlock hummed and took his first bite. He'd have to tell Mrs. Hudson thank you when she got back. And ask if he might have the recipe.


End file.
